


Trappings

by Sparseparsley



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparseparsley/pseuds/Sparseparsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter just wants to say hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trappings

**Author's Note:**

> Quick fic written to fit in after the final showdown in the season 2 finale. Because I missed Peter-Stiles interactions something awful.

When Stiles turns away from the sight of Lydia and Jackson (and it shouldn’t hurt the way it does, it shouldn’t, he knows that, hates himself for the way it does anyway), Peter is there.

“Stiles.”

He’s leaning up against the door of the Jeep, blocking Stiles from getting in it while somehow looking like he’s doing anything but. He looks less threatening, Stiles notes, with the scruffy supervillain goatee.

“No,” Stiles says, looking anywhere but at Peter’s face. He’s trying not to remember the last time he saw it, charred black and red like a nightmare. “I’m pretending I don’t see you.”

Because he can’t deal with that. Not on top of everything else. Undead werewolves will not be acknowledged.

“That’s hurtful. I only wanted to say hello.”

All Stiles wants to do is check on his baby and then go home and not think about werewolf bullshit for at least one day. Clearly, that can’t be a thing that is. Fine, whatever. “ _Hello._ There, happy? Can you go back to being dead, now?” He looks up, irritated, just in time to see Peter smile.

“I certainly hope not, I went through a lot of effort to be here. No point in wasting it.”

“I don’t know, throwing volatile chemicals on you again seems like the opposite of a waste.”

Peter’s smile slips away like it was never there. His eyes go flat and a subsonic growl thrums at Stiles’ bones, pulling fear up through the layers of turmoil and exhaustion. This Peter, he remembers. Stiles swallows, backing away a step.

The space at Stiles’ back suddenly feels very attentive, sharply so, and he sees Peter look past him to whoever is there. Scott, probably. Stiles would look, but he doesn’t need any more reminders that he has to be protected. Not tonight.

Who or whatever Peter sees, he nods and slips into that shroud of a smile again. “It’s been a rough night for you, hasn’t it?” Peter’s gaze flickers to the side and Stiles follows it without thinking, chest going tight at the sight of Jackson still cradled in Lydia’s arms in front of his Jeep. They’re talking to each other quietly, doe eyes to doe eyes. Stiles looks away, mouth working around the bitter lump of his tongue. He doesn’t answer.

“It must hurt.”

Stiles closes his eyes, knowing he’s giving too much away to someone he can’t afford to give anything to, but too tired to care.

Something brushes softly over the scrape on his cheek and Stiles rears back with a surprised breath. His eyes snap open to see Peter’s hand pulling away, claws turned in to present a smooth curve. Stiles’ own fingers find the wound automatically, pushing in a sting that drives away the echo of Peter’s touch.

“It was Gerard, wasn’t it?” Peter sighs, brows drawing up in empathy. “I can smell him on you, like a shadow.”

God, do they just give out free creepy lessons at werewolf college?

Stiles shrugs uncomfortably, glancing behind himself before he remembers he wasn’t going to. Scott and Allison have their heads together, murmuring to each other while her father looms awkwardly. Derek and Isaac both have their attention split between Jackson (hey, they got a new brother tonight, bully for them) and Peter and Stiles’ little corner of unreality.

Looking back at Peter, Stiles wonders how long he’s expected to play this game. “So, what? Everybody kinda got the painful end of the stick, tonight.”

“Yes,” Peter shrugs, lifting his foot to rest against the door of the Jeep, a picture of casual friendliness. “Most of us will heal by morning though.”

That stings more than the rough skin Stiles keeps poking at, the reminder of exactly what good he’d been tonight. Even hitting Jackson with his car hadn’t actually done much, the only real use he’d been was as a Lydia Deployment System, which she probably could have handled just fine on her own.

“Look, can-” Stiles cuts off, sagging where he stands with a sigh that draws right up from his toes. “I just really want to go home, I don’t know how you’re alive or why you’re helping us and I don’t really plan to give a shit until tomorrow at the _earliest_ , so... can I please take a raincheck on the creepy werezombie chat, or, or, something? Please?”

Peter spreads his hands apart, apologetic. “Of course, you must be exhausted. For the record, I really did just want to talk, but...” He stands aside, pulling the Jeep’s door open and gesturing for Stiles to get in. “Please.”

After Stiles climbs in, doing his best to avoid the curl of Peter’s fingers over the open window frame, Peter lets the door close with a clunk. His hands stay wrapped around the frame, though, close enough that Stiles feels the panic of being trapped welling up despite the unlocked door on his other side. He stares at the dashboard, waiting.

Peter’s claws (still claws, a constant reminder of exactly what he is under those sympathetic frowns) tap out a rhythm against the metal, repeating long enough that Stiles finally breaks and looks up to find Peter watching him, contemplative.

“Would you like me to talk to Derek for you?”

It’s enough of a non sequitur that Stiles can’t help giving Peter his full attention. “What?”

“About helping you out, since I can’t any more.” Peter’s mouth curls into a knowing smile. “I have a feeling you’re regretting how quickly you said no to my last offer. You remember, before the agonizing death?”

It feels like every part of Stiles goes still, right down to his lungs.

“I- I- “ He can’t get the words out, can’t shove them past how tight his throat has gone. It’s there, right there, the chance to be more than he is, to be _something_. He remembers the ooze of black down Gerard’s arm, the complete desolation in Jackson’s face. The blood and guilt and betrayal and horror and every other reason he should want to say no again, drive away and just curl up on his bed to forget. But he remembers the look on Gerard’s face, too, as he beat Stiles down just because he could. The fucking _glee_.

He remembers the life in Lydia’s eyes when Jackson howled for the first time.

The ‘no’ won’t come.

The tap of claws on metal stops. “If you really want to get out of here, you should do it soon. I’m afraid we’ve caught someone’s attention.”

Hands squeezing hard on the wheel to hide the shaking, Stiles looks through the far window. Peter’s right, Scott is frowning their way and looks like he’s two seconds from coming over. As hard as Stiles loves the guy, he’d rather take another punch to the face than talk right now.

A palm cups against the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, blunt nailed and gentle. “Go on. There’s nothing left for you to do here. Go home and get those cuts cleaned up.” Peter pulls back, stepping away from the side of the Jeep. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Stiles stares at Peter, at his perfect composure, and feels the hollow ache in his chest start to fill with a tide of emotions he couldn’t even name, most of them angry. “You know, things that die should stay dead.”

Peter laughs. Laughs with his head back and his mouth wide, like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard. When it stops, his eyes still glitter with it. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

The hint of fangs behind an open smile follows Stiles all the way home.


End file.
